Wordlessly Anton took the piece of paper from Sanguine and looked at it, and wordlessly he crumpled the paper in his hand. The sorcerer turned to Skulduggery and said quietly, "We have a problem. In about a minute a few dozen zombies are going to come through those doors and attempt to massacre us all."
Because Sanguine's 'offer' was utterly inconceivable. Not enough to even begin to enter Anton's mind as any kind of possibility. Anton didn't compromise his rules for his friends; the Texan was a fool if he thought Anton would compromise them for his enemies. "We need to bar as many of the windows and doors as possible." He was already surveying their surroundings, already regretting how heavily he had relied upon the wards as protection. No part of the hotel was truly defensible.
"Oh. By the way." Anton turned abruptly to Sanguine and without any warning at all let his fist fly at the cowboy's head. He didn't hold back, and the blow hit hard. "You are no longer a guest of this establishment."
~~~
Contrary to Valkyrie's sudden energy, Solomon went very still. The girl's words rang in his head. You didn't see Vile?
In Skulduggery Pleasant's soul? Lord Vile?
"Ah, Solomon."
High Priest Tenebrae's voice made Solomon turn, and immediately he wished he hadn't. Gripping his cane, the Necromancer bowed to his superior and then nodded to the man with him. It was far less of a gesture of respect than anyone else would have offered. He knew it. Tenebrae knew it, judging by the way his eyes narrowed.
No doubt Lord Vile did as well, but he never showed that he cared. Tenebrae nodded to the man. "Thank you, Lord Vile. You may go."
Without a word the armoured sorcerer turned and left, and Solomon watched him vanish in a gust of shadows, exhaling slowly. "You're being rude, Solomon," Tenebrae said in a fatherly tone, also gazing in the same direction.
"Forgive me, High Priest," Solomon murmured, appropriately contrite. Mostly.
"You still don't believe in him, do you?"
"I believe in his power."
But not as their saviour, he added silently. Lord Vile was using them as surely as they would use him. The difference was that he was too powerful to control. Sooner or later, probably sooner, he would decide they had nothing more to offer him and then only he knew what he'd do.
Tenebrae only nodded as if in thought, but then clapped a hand to Solomon's shoulder. "Have faith, Solomon. You'll see soon enough."
Someone was laughing. It took a moment for Solomon to realise that it was him. Even then, he didn't try to stop it. It wasn't a hysterical laugh, though there was an element of that. Mostly it was just ironic. Deeply amused, but bitterly ironic. All those little hints, all at once, had come together in his mind. The way Vile had never spoken. The way Vile had never shown his face. The way Vile had cared nothing for the tenets of their faith. His power.
The way Pleasant had known more about the Death Bringer than any non-Necromancer should have.
Skulduggery Pleasant was Lord Vile.
"Solomon."
... Ah. Solomon paused in the middle of perusing the wares on the market stand. It was a sunny day; most people wouldn't expect a Necromancer to be out on such a day. They thrived too much in shadow. Likewise, they wouldn't expect a Necromancer in such a crowd. Necromancers were solitary sorcerers of darkness, after all. And they were right. Necromancers were such people.
Solomon wasn't an ordinary Necromancer. Sunlight meant shadows. A lot of people cast a lot of shadows. That meant he had power where no one would expect any.
Except one man. Except this man.
Casually Solomon gave a tug on his sleeves, as if to straighten his coat, before turning properly to his companion with a smile and carefully modulated surprise in his tone. "Skulduggery. Fancy meeting you here. What should I get, do you think?" He waved a hand toward the cheeses on display. "The soft or the hard?"
Ordinarily, he would have expected Skulduggery to make some snide comment about the Temple being a monastic institution and shouldn't its clerics be barred from eating such rich foods? (It had been a long time since Solomon had bothered to adhere to such laws, and all because of the man before him.)
This wasn't ordinary, Solomon realised a split-second before Skulduggery's fist collided with his face. The Necromancer was flung back into the stall with a rattle of its timbre beams, and despite his surprise he managed to catch himself before falling completely. The stall-owner squawked and then abruptly fell silent, and Solomon couldn't help the grim smile. Another victim of Skulduggery Pleasant's Look. A little unsteadily Solomon pushed himself upright again, feeling his chin and the blood that trickled from his split lip.
"Stay away from my daughter." Skulduggery's voice was emotionless and it made the Necromancer's heart skip a beat. Despite himself Solomon laughed as he straightened, laughed something light that was almost amused but, underlying, was bitter. Bitter in a way only Skulduggery would notice. Even still, the Necromancer lifted his head and met Skulduggery's gaze squarely, brushing off his clothes.
"I've no idea what you mean," he lied smoothly, and knew it was useless even as he said it. Skulduggery's face had no expression. There was no trace of that genuine twinkle of amusement Solomon could still get from him, on occasion, when he got in a particularly good barb--even now, after everything. None of that now.
Skulduggery took a step forward, a casual step that was intimidating with its very grace and effortlessness. Solomon stood his ground, his back straight and grip on his cane loose. The stall-owner, and everyone around them, had no such courage. "You've been showing her things," Skulduggery said levelly. "You've been talking to her. Trying to get her to join your Temple."
There was no point in obfuscating. "She's got talent."
"My daughter," Skulduggery said with that quiet tone that heralded unprecedented disaster, "is not and never will be a Necromancer."
Solomon smiled, and it was tighter than he meant it to be. "If I didn't know any better I'd think you didn't like Necromancers. I thought we were friends, Skulduggery."
"We're not friends, Solomon."
It wasn't that it was unexpected, really. They hadn't really been friends for a long time, even though neither of them had spoken of it. It was just that there wasn't even a hint of sadness or regret in the Elemental's tone. No evidence at all that Skulduggery recognised what he'd done to Solomon, how'd he'd made things so much harder than they could have been. No sign that Skulduggery wished things could have been different.
Solomon's smile froze on his face and then fell off it, his expression turned flat and cold. "And if I should approach your daughter again?"
"I'll kill you." Stated simply. Unequivocally. As if they had never been friends at all.
"I see," Solomon said evenly. "And now?"
"And now you walk away relatively unhurt, Wreath. For old time's sake."
For several long moments they stood there and stared at each other, neither moving, each with a nimbus of tension and readiness about them. The world around them didn't exist. Nothing existed but this moment.
The first evidence. The first sign that Skulduggery had once cared at all, and it hurt. It reached into Solomon's chest and squeezed his heart tighter than he'd believed was possible any more. For a moment, he teetered on the brink of refusing. Teetered toward maintaining his pursuit of Skulduggery's daughter, in petty vengeance for everything the older sorcerer had wrought in him and then abandoned to him.
Except that Skulduggery had shown the sign. He had given some minor clue. Just once, at this, the end.
"For old time's sake," Solomon echoed softly. He inclined his head, spreading his hands still with his cane planted firmly on the ground in a mocking bow. "Until next time, Lord Pleasant."
Then Solomon Wreath strode away, his expression impassive and hand tight around the head of his cane, seeping with the icy, comforting chill of the only thing that hadn't abandoned him.
Abruptly Solomon's laughter died and he looked at Valkyrie. "Well," he said, and his voice was even because he could not process anything enough for it to be anything else. "I suppose redemption is possible after all. That, or Saint Gabriel is keeping his power in check." Or perhaps it was a bit of both. No wonder Pleasant had given up his family name. No wonder Saint Gabriel was so concerned for his welfare. Did the Archangel truly believe Pleasant, Lord Vile, could be saved?
And if so, did it change what Solomon thought of himself?
no subject
Because Sanguine's 'offer' was utterly inconceivable. Not enough to even begin to enter Anton's mind as any kind of possibility. Anton didn't compromise his rules for his friends; the Texan was a fool if he thought Anton would compromise them for his enemies. "We need to bar as many of the windows and doors as possible." He was already surveying their surroundings, already regretting how heavily he had relied upon the wards as protection. No part of the hotel was truly defensible.
"Oh. By the way." Anton turned abruptly to Sanguine and without any warning at all let his fist fly at the cowboy's head. He didn't hold back, and the blow hit hard. "You are no longer a guest of this establishment."
~~~
Contrary to Valkyrie's sudden energy, Solomon went very still. The girl's words rang in his head. You didn't see Vile?
In Skulduggery Pleasant's soul? Lord Vile?
"Ah, Solomon."
High Priest Tenebrae's voice made Solomon turn, and immediately he wished he hadn't. Gripping his cane, the Necromancer bowed to his superior and then nodded to the man with him. It was far less of a gesture of respect than anyone else would have offered. He knew it. Tenebrae knew it, judging by the way his eyes narrowed.
No doubt Lord Vile did as well, but he never showed that he cared. Tenebrae nodded to the man. "Thank you, Lord Vile. You may go."
Without a word the armoured sorcerer turned and left, and Solomon watched him vanish in a gust of shadows, exhaling slowly. "You're being rude, Solomon," Tenebrae said in a fatherly tone, also gazing in the same direction.
"Forgive me, High Priest," Solomon murmured, appropriately contrite. Mostly.
"You still don't believe in him, do you?"
"I believe in his power."
But not as their saviour, he added silently. Lord Vile was using them as surely as they would use him. The difference was that he was too powerful to control. Sooner or later, probably sooner, he would decide they had nothing more to offer him and then only he knew what he'd do.
Tenebrae only nodded as if in thought, but then clapped a hand to Solomon's shoulder. "Have faith, Solomon. You'll see soon enough."
Someone was laughing. It took a moment for Solomon to realise that it was him. Even then, he didn't try to stop it. It wasn't a hysterical laugh, though there was an element of that. Mostly it was just ironic. Deeply amused, but bitterly ironic. All those little hints, all at once, had come together in his mind. The way Vile had never spoken. The way Vile had never shown his face. The way Vile had cared nothing for the tenets of their faith. His power.
The way Pleasant had known more about the Death Bringer than any non-Necromancer should have.
Skulduggery Pleasant was Lord Vile.
"Solomon."
... Ah. Solomon paused in the middle of perusing the wares on the market stand. It was a sunny day; most people wouldn't expect a Necromancer to be out on such a day. They thrived too much in shadow. Likewise, they wouldn't expect a Necromancer in such a crowd. Necromancers were solitary sorcerers of darkness, after all. And they were right. Necromancers were such people.
Solomon wasn't an ordinary Necromancer. Sunlight meant shadows. A lot of people cast a lot of shadows. That meant he had power where no one would expect any.
Except one man. Except this man.
Casually Solomon gave a tug on his sleeves, as if to straighten his coat, before turning properly to his companion with a smile and carefully modulated surprise in his tone. "Skulduggery. Fancy meeting you here. What should I get, do you think?" He waved a hand toward the cheeses on display. "The soft or the hard?"
Ordinarily, he would have expected Skulduggery to make some snide comment about the Temple being a monastic institution and shouldn't its clerics be barred from eating such rich foods? (It had been a long time since Solomon had bothered to adhere to such laws, and all because of the man before him.)
This wasn't ordinary, Solomon realised a split-second before Skulduggery's fist collided with his face. The Necromancer was flung back into the stall with a rattle of its timbre beams, and despite his surprise he managed to catch himself before falling completely. The stall-owner squawked and then abruptly fell silent, and Solomon couldn't help the grim smile. Another victim of Skulduggery Pleasant's Look. A little unsteadily Solomon pushed himself upright again, feeling his chin and the blood that trickled from his split lip.
"Stay away from my daughter." Skulduggery's voice was emotionless and it made the Necromancer's heart skip a beat. Despite himself Solomon laughed as he straightened, laughed something light that was almost amused but, underlying, was bitter. Bitter in a way only Skulduggery would notice. Even still, the Necromancer lifted his head and met Skulduggery's gaze squarely, brushing off his clothes.
"I've no idea what you mean," he lied smoothly, and knew it was useless even as he said it. Skulduggery's face had no expression. There was no trace of that genuine twinkle of amusement Solomon could still get from him, on occasion, when he got in a particularly good barb--even now, after everything. None of that now.
Skulduggery took a step forward, a casual step that was intimidating with its very grace and effortlessness. Solomon stood his ground, his back straight and grip on his cane loose. The stall-owner, and everyone around them, had no such courage. "You've been showing her things," Skulduggery said levelly. "You've been talking to her. Trying to get her to join your Temple."
There was no point in obfuscating. "She's got talent."
"My daughter," Skulduggery said with that quiet tone that heralded unprecedented disaster, "is not and never will be a Necromancer."
Solomon smiled, and it was tighter than he meant it to be. "If I didn't know any better I'd think you didn't like Necromancers. I thought we were friends, Skulduggery."
"We're not friends, Solomon."
It wasn't that it was unexpected, really. They hadn't really been friends for a long time, even though neither of them had spoken of it. It was just that there wasn't even a hint of sadness or regret in the Elemental's tone. No evidence at all that Skulduggery recognised what he'd done to Solomon, how'd he'd made things so much harder than they could have been. No sign that Skulduggery wished things could have been different.
Solomon's smile froze on his face and then fell off it, his expression turned flat and cold. "And if I should approach your daughter again?"
"I'll kill you." Stated simply. Unequivocally. As if they had never been friends at all.
"I see," Solomon said evenly. "And now?"
"And now you walk away relatively unhurt, Wreath. For old time's sake."
For several long moments they stood there and stared at each other, neither moving, each with a nimbus of tension and readiness about them. The world around them didn't exist. Nothing existed but this moment.
The first evidence. The first sign that Skulduggery had once cared at all, and it hurt. It reached into Solomon's chest and squeezed his heart tighter than he'd believed was possible any more. For a moment, he teetered on the brink of refusing. Teetered toward maintaining his pursuit of Skulduggery's daughter, in petty vengeance for everything the older sorcerer had wrought in him and then abandoned to him.
Except that Skulduggery had shown the sign. He had given some minor clue. Just once, at this, the end.
"For old time's sake," Solomon echoed softly. He inclined his head, spreading his hands still with his cane planted firmly on the ground in a mocking bow. "Until next time, Lord Pleasant."
Then Solomon Wreath strode away, his expression impassive and hand tight around the head of his cane, seeping with the icy, comforting chill of the only thing that hadn't abandoned him.
Abruptly Solomon's laughter died and he looked at Valkyrie. "Well," he said, and his voice was even because he could not process anything enough for it to be anything else. "I suppose redemption is possible after all. That, or Saint Gabriel is keeping his power in check." Or perhaps it was a bit of both. No wonder Pleasant had given up his family name. No wonder Saint Gabriel was so concerned for his welfare. Did the Archangel truly believe Pleasant, Lord Vile, could be saved?
And if so, did it change what Solomon thought of himself?